The Blue Virgin Page 2

  At last Val sighed. “As long as you really mean it’s financial, not anything to do with us.”

  “It’s nothing to do with us. Just give me time to save more, all right? Then I’ll feel comfortable with the whole thing.” She approached Val and gave her a warm hug. “Go on then, you look exhausted. You have co-op duty tomorrow, and you’re helping Nora pack up this weekend. I’ll finish up here, it’s almost done.”

  Val nodded and left quietly, looking subdued and hurt.

  *

  Bryn rummaged through her medicine chest, swallowing two paracetamol tablets to stop the throbbing headache from her argument with Val. Although Val seemed reassured when she’d gone, Bryn hated any thread of tension between them. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Val the real reason she didn’t have quite the bank account she’d been hoping to produce.

  As she left the bathroom, a tentative but insistent knock came at the door. Bryn waited a few moments before moving to answer it. Whoever was there had avoided the lobby buzzer. Crossing to the door, she reluctantly opened it, fearing another bout of arguing with Val—and certain it would not be productive. Things were changing rapidly and she was changing with them, but she felt drained on all fronts.

  “What you are doing? … Oh, look, forgive me, I’m so confused. You’d better come in and help me sort things out.”

  Chapter Two

  “There are, fortunately, very few people who can say that they have actually attended a murder.”

  — Margery Allingham, Death of a Ghost

  Friday

  5:30 AM

  Detective Inspector Declan Barnes of the Criminal Investigation Department pulled his sizable frame out of his classic MGB, admiring the way the flashing blue lights from the uniform’s car reflected off the glossy British Racing Green repaint. The roadster had cost him far too much—no out-of-country vacation for him this year—but it looked superb, a perfect mate for the replaced saddle-tan convertible lid. He really ought to name her, he decided. Even though it occasionally took two slams for the door to catch, the motor turned over smoothly every time he fired her up, even at unconscionable pre-dawn hours such as this.

  The first suggestion of dawn appeared, streaks of orange and pink light on the horizon piercing the darkness. The beginning of yet another ordinary day in Oxford for most of the town’s inhabitants, Declan thought, locking the car and pocketing the key. He looked longingly at his car, postponing the roller coaster ride he knew awaited him.

  His sergeant, waiting in the shadow of the entry on Magdalen Road, waved him over. The building was located just off the Cowley Road, across from The Inner Bookshop. The popular New Age haven boasted CDs, postcards, the inevitable self-help courses, and a huge collection of new and used books, ranging from the esoteric to the occult. Declan knew the area from questioning a comely actress waitressing at the spiritual Magic Cafe next door about her connection with a former boyfriend’s death. That case had been determined a suicide, the actress cleared of any suspicion, but he had found himself returning for a cup of what he’d decided was the best French Roast in town, chatting up the pert lass with the ready smile and energetic air. Last month she suddenly disappeared, and the manager explained she was playing Titania in a modern Scottish production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream—another dead end in his relentless search for a woman who could keep pace with him and his chosen profession.

  Across the road, in stark contrast to the contemporary feel of this side of the block, the building Declan approached sat positioned firmly in the last century. Four floors of pale Cotswold golden stone were set in a neo-Georgian design with symmetrically placed windows. An elaborate black wrought-iron railing curled around the basement entry gate and above the entrance. Declan bounded up the steps with his energy coming on, adrenaline pumping as it always did at the start of a new case. He followed Sergeant Watkins into the lobby, bending down under the crime scene tape with ease.

  “This better not be a suicide, Watkins. I might have left a delightful lady behind.” Declan winked.

  Watkins smirked and led him toward a ground-floor flat. It was a joke between them that the rumors of Declan’s stable of women were more fiction than fact. A well-built man of thirty-six with light brown hair, a tanned face with a square jaw, and a brow that furrowed in concentration, Declan had a nose with a slight bump that kept him from appearing overtly handsome. His singleness since his divorce fueled the rumors. As if. The dependable sergeant answered: “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about suicide, sir. Not too much of a chance of that. I think you’ll agree once you pop inside.”

  They paused at the door and Declan nodded to the uniformed guard on duty.

  “Duty detective notified the Senior Scenes of Crime Officer. Police surgeon on his way, guv,” Watkins continued.

  Declan knew the SOCO chief would inform Her Majesty’s Coroner to schedule an inquest as he was finding his way to Magdalen Road. The wheels of a murder investigation were in place and turning.

  “Do we have a positive ID?” he asked, opening the door.

  Watkins consulted a notebook. “The neighbor who found the body identified her as Bryn Wallace.”

  *

  Despite the adrenaline rush, Declan disliked viewing a body. He pulled on shoe covers and gloves then thrust his hands into his pockets. Early in his career, his fingerprints had been left on a piece of evidence he’d handled in the excitement of the find; it was a mistake he’d never repeat.

  The stereo was on when he came in but he didn’t recognize the song. He glanced at Watkins, raising one eyebrow in question.

  “It was found on repeat, sir, the reason the neighbor came by, being on since just after midnight and finally driving him batty a few hours later. When he came up to ask her to turn it off, he found the door ajar and the music blaring away. That was about 4 AM. We merely turned the volume lower—with gloves on, of course. No sign of forced entry.”

  “And this neighbor?” Declan asked, pulling out his notebook, hating the way the gloves constricted his fingers. The hair on one knuckle pinched and he shifted the rubber to release it.

  “One Davey Haskitt, twenty-three, lives in the basement directly under this flat. Works in the bakery at the Covered Market. We have a woman police constable sitting with him in his flat. He was pretty upset—knew the deceased fairly well from what I’ve gathered.”

  “All right, Watkins, thanks for the update. Get someone to turn the bloody thing off after it’s been printed. I’ll want a transcription of the song’s lyrics.”

  The forensic people were already swarming through the flat, collecting evidence, their white coveralls evoking a mass of colossal assiduous moths. Cameras flashed, the fingerprint men dusted, a video camera recorded details. Declan entered the bright kitchen and was surprised to see the home office pathologist leaning over the body lying on the floor.

  “Give me five, Dec,” the pathologist said.

  Charlie Borden. Declan was relieved the case had been assigned to someone he knew and got along with well. He averted his eyes in a semblance of allowing Charlie private space as he worked. While the stocky bearded man on his knees continued his inspection of the dead girl, Declan took in the rest of the room.

  It was a small but well-equipped kitchen with a recently used cooker, as evidenced by the strong food odors that lingered. Two clean baking dishes and a sheet pan were stacked on the counter, waiting to be put away. The cooker stood at the end of a run of contemporary white cabinets, next to a small refrigerator. Stacked wire baskets held an assortment of colorful fresh fruits and vegetables. Next to the sink, one of the upper cupboard doors hung open. Declan imagined the victim had been in the process of stowing her clean dishes when she’d let the murderer into her home. The stark doors and butcher block countertop had a few moderate blood splatters sprayed across them, as di
d the tile floor, but it was not a huge amount of blood. His alert glance revolved around the room, taking in the magnetic strip mounted on the side of one upper end cabinet. It held a series of knives, already dusted for prints. An empty space at the near end stood out prominently.

  Finally he let his glance fall to the floor, where the body took up one half of the floor space. A slender brunette on her back had one arm flung above her head, the other curved gracefully at her side. Both hands had cuts on them. One leg was straight, the other bent: a ballerina pose in death, in horrific contrast to the brutality of the murder.

  Not a sexual attack, he decided, as her bloodied jeans and white shirt appeared intact except for the dark cuts around her torso. He wondered if there were any on her back, building up a mental picture of the victim turning away from her attacker to open the cupboard door, reeling from a slash to her back, turning back and holding up her hands to ward off more blows, the knife slicing into her hands before finding the abdomen. The pathologist stood, finishing his dictation into a small hand-held machine, and Declan heard him agree with his assumptions.

  “No obvious signs of sexual interference, probably surprise attack. Autopsy and report to follow.” Clicking the recorder off, Charlie stripped off his gloves. “When I heard this was just around the corner, I decided to stop by and see the body in situ. Not a nice thing to be gotten out of bed for, Dec.” Both Oxford natives, they occasionally shared a pint of real ale at The Old Tom, the pub within walking distance of St. Aldate’s Station, Declan’s base. Charlie was fond of heckling the numerous Christ Church and Pembroke students laboring on the Daily Express crossword.

  “I can think of other things I’d rather be doing at this hour,” the detective replied, and before his friend could inquire about the status of his much-discussed private life, added firmly: “Sleeping.”

  Charlie grunted in agreement and scratched his ample belly, shirt buttons just beginning to strain against their burden, and launched into his professional recital.

  “Dead approximately four to five hours, multiple stab wounds, but there’s something unusual here—let me get her on the table and I’ll be sure. Late twenties, well kept, well groomed. Several defensive cuts on the dorsum of her hands—one laceration on her wrist hit the radial artery. That one’s made the high splatter, but it appears random. Anyway, I doubt that was the actual cause of her death. The other wounds are deep, and there was bound to be massive internal hemorrhaging. No sign of the weapon yet from what your boys can see.”

  “With forensics these days, only an idiot would leave the weapon behind,” Declan commented.

  Charlie agreed as he packed up his gear. “There’s obviously anger here, but the killer quickly became rational, enough to take the weapon with him, which I’m assuming will turn out to be that missing knife.” He pointed to the magnetic strip. “Very thorough, your team.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. When do you think you’ll have more for me?”

  Charlie rubbed his left ear while he considered this, yawning before answering. “Let’s try for late afternoon today, after 4. I’ll call your mobile. And afterward you can buy me a few pints for squeezing you in.”

  “I believe it’s your shout,” Declan said good-naturedly. “But I’ll buy if you promise to leave the puzzlers alone.”

  “No promises—too much fun. We’ll go dutch.” Charlie grinned in compromise. “Let me get out of here so I can have a shower and nuzzle my lovely wife before heading into the lab.”

  “Some people have to stay and work,” Declan called after him, and turned back to the scene of the girl’s murder. After the multitude of homicide cases he had covered, he recognized the numbing curtain that fell in the face of violent death, a barrier he’d learned he sorely needed to distance himself so he could remain objective and solve the crime. Humor, often misunderstood by onlookers, provided an outlet.

  He already knew something about this murderer. He had acted in anger but retained enough sense to take the weapon. He wasn’t calm enough to close the door or turn the stereo off. Both actions would have delayed the body’s discovery. Unless that was deliberate, of course, and the killer wanted the body found. Declan looked down at the corpse of Bryn Wallace.

  He examined the slim body in impersonal segments. Her limbs were long and well formed, the nails on the bagged hands polished a soft pink. After noting the wrist laceration on her slender arm, he wondered if she were a dancer or a fitness trainer. By now Watkins probably knew from the team interviews of the neighbors.

  Bryn Wallace’s brunette hair fanned out artistically around her head, adding credence to his impression the body had been arranged. He made a note to ask Charlie if he had the same perception.

  The woman’s face was finely sculpted, her eyes closed, thick dark lashes splayed out against prominent cheekbones. The milky skin of her neck was circled with a silver chain that disappeared beneath her white cotton shirt and hung down over her right breast. Declan knelt down beside the body and leaned closer to find the pendant that weighed it down, using his pen to gently withdraw an ornate silver charm.

  “Rodgers, get a snap of this thing, will you?” he asked the photographer, who appeared quickly and took several from different angles as Declan held it aloft. He dropped the pendant back inside the woman’s shirt, pondering its significance. Was it a personal choice or had someone given it to her?

  Nodding to the coroner’s crew to remove the body, Declan quickly sketched a site plan of the kitchen in his notebook. Turning a page, he did another of the general layout of the flat. He scrawled notes from habit and experience, hoping something would jump out at him later—perhaps even a clue to this woman’s murder.

  The answer to who had killed her would lie in uncovering who Bryn Wallace was and how she had lived her life. No Morse-like ruminations for him—everyone and everything in her circle would be inspected with a magnifying glass in this investigation. He was thorough to a fault, a trait Declan considered the hallmark of a good detective. He would evaluate the information gleaned from various angles, knowing cases had been solved when the evidence had been viewed from a different direction. Murder was a giant puzzle, and he owed it to the victim to sort out the pieces until they fell into place.

  After learning Bryn’s background from Watkins, he started in the sitting room, where her interest in photography dominated the room. Raspberry walls and high white ceilings were bordered with thick white crown molding, setting off the black and white photos which, simply framed and labeled, circled the room in an eye-level arrangement. Worn, comfortable brown leather furniture and a vintage sideboard almost faded into the background as the framed images eclipsed everything else in the room.

  Declan took his time with the images Bryn Wallace had captured, citizens of Oxford seemingly unaware they were being photographed, frozen in revealing moments of humanity. A white-haired man in a business suit checking his watch against Carfax Tower evoked a frenetic hummingbird caught in a rare instant of stillness. A stout woman in a heavy tweed coat, walking a Scottie dog sporting a tartan collar, cast a lingering look at a shop window filled with diaphanous lingerie. At the end of the row a group of insouciant teens satisfied late-night munchies, slouching against the front of a kebob van on the High, secure in their infallibility. Declan decided Bryn Wallace had been talented.

  Declan moved into the bathroom, nodding to a SOCO who was leaving. He noted the absence of birth control pills or prescription drugs in her medicine cabinet, then entered the small bedroom with its neatly made double bed, the duvet white with lavender sprigs of lilac. The room was feminine but not fussy, the walls painted a pale, restful green. Sheer curtains hung over drawn shades, shutting out the world but not the rising traffic noise from the road as life went on outside the windows, and the street woke up.

  His eye was drawn to a framed document that took pride of place
over the upholstered green velvet headboard. Stepping around a fingerprinter working on the bedside table, he leaned over to inspect the hanging.

  On a piece of thick, creamy parchment, two poems were inscribed in flowing calligraphy. The top portion was devoted to a set of lyrics, noted as the song “She” by Charles Aznavour and Herbert Kretzmer. Declan scanned the lyrics of loving devotion to a woman. A hand-drawn Celtic knot divided the sections. The more succinct bottom portion read:

  From E. B. Browning, but pretend I’ve written them for you:

  Love me Sweet, with all thou art,

  Feeling, thinking, seeing;

  Love me in the lightest part,

  Love me in full being.

  Eternally, Val

  “Rodgers,” Declan called out, “Get me some close-up shots of this, please.” Someone loved Bryn Wallace, Declan mused, quickly dismissing the sting the thought gave him.

  He opened the closet door and searched through the clothes that hung there or were stacked on two upper shelves, checking pockets and along hemlines. Everything was of decent quality; she’d been a sale shopper, from the discount stickers on several shoe boxes. Declan had found you could discern a person’s traits by the way they kept their closets and decided Bryn Wallace had been neat, kept to a budget, and respected quality over quantity.